


Discretion Advised

by Rezz



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 5+1 prompt, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First Loves, Fluff, Just saying., M/M, More tags to be added, Not Canon Compliant, Pidge is a genius, Pure, The hidge is strong my guys, a genius that has hunk wrapped around her finger, a love letter to the hidge fandom, all jokes aside, and a genius that may inversely also be wrapped around hunk's finger, and we deserved SO much better, best friends that happen to be in love?, but definitely before everything started going downhill y'know?, cause I wuv y'all, clearly, dorks being dorks, hidge, hunk's dignity takes a hit but he digresses, not beta read we die like men, not sure what point in time this would take place, not-keith, not-lance, not-pidge, not-shiro, probably around the time of the coalition, team punk, they're both just really big dorks? who really love eachother?, tragic right?, training bot shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 12:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19830070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rezz/pseuds/Rezz
Summary: Hunk, to put it frankly, has never been the greatest at hiding his emotions. People could read his heart like a poster pinned to the wall of a dental office. But this? This was going to take every ounce of restraint he had, any control he had over his emotions that lay themselves bare. It was the one condition they had agreed upon, the only rule that was absolutely, unconditionally, no-excuses-what-so-ever, nonnegotiable in the matter of following it. To the T. Under no circumstances, ever, were they supposed to allow their relationship to interfere with their roles as paladins. Period. No if's and's or or's about it. And Hunk, poor, endearing Hunk, is finding it increasingly hard to follow through on that rule.Or.The five times Hunk let his feelings get in the way of a Voltron duty, or two, and the one time Pidge did just the same.





	Discretion Advised

**Author's Note:**

> Hunk has never been a fan of new training modules, especially when they prove to be trying in a less than strictly physical sense.

He should have known better, he really should have. In fact, there was little doubt left in his mind that the situation before him wasn’t completely the work of universal karmaic justice, the invisible forces of fate acting above him and against him, to prove a point. His mother did always tell him the universe was a petty, petty thing.

Universal forces aside, as much as he was sure there was some meddling of karma to blame for his predicament, he himself couldn’t shake the fault for his troubles completely, either. When was he going to learn that procrastination never solved anything? Never, probably, but the sentiment was not to be unappreciated. 

It was an honest mistake, on his part. How was he to know that putting off training with the new equipment could come back to, as Lance would eloquently put it, _bite him in the ass_?

Chameleonware, that’s what Allura called it, a new feature to add to the gladiator bots to train with, something she and Pidge had been cooking up for months now. If Hunk recalled correctly, it was supposed to up and anny on their paladin training, something about giving the bots a new, “highly-adaptive,” “form-changing” ability. So the bots could change their appearance now, sure, that was cool. Hunk could appreciate a training update as much as the next guy, if not a little more if he were the one programming it himself—and it’s not like he was _purposely_ avoiding giving the new tech a go-about, he just, y’know, got busy. Busy with new recipes, and touching up the paint on Yellow’s muzzle where it’d gotten a little scratched in their last galra-encounter, leaving little encrypted messages on Pidge’s laptop that lingered on the romantic side—there just always seemed to be _something else_ that needed doing. He didn’t go about the days following that Chameleonware update with the _intention_ of procrastinating, just, kinda, fell into it, y’know?

And that’s precisely how he found himself in his particular situation, staring down the metal double-doors to the training room like they were a pit of hissing snakes. Hunk didn’t have much against snakes, but that didn’t mean he _liked_ them either. The same could be said in regards to training. He wasn’t completely against it, and he knew very well how _absolutely necessary_ it was, but that didn’t mean he was a gun-ho training maniac like Keith. God only knows how Keith manages to get in his ridiculous training regime and still, well, _function_. Hunk had yet to figure it out himself, but he imagined if he did, he’d have to take some notes.

He swallowed thickly.

“You ready there, Hunk?” Allura raised softly in that bell-like voice of hers, crackling over the speakers between the hall and the training room. 

Short answer, yes. Long answer, absolutely not. He was already sweating, and he left a batch of cookies in the oven that he _really_ didn’t feel like letting burn, and he would be lying if he said that he knew exactly what to expect of the new tech—which, knowing Pidge, there was no possible way _to_ know what to expect—and there was a very large part of him still _extremely set_ on turning back around and continuing on his merry-procrastinating-way. Still, despite every qualm he held, Hunk took a deep breath, set his shoulders, and nodded with the determination of a lion. A lion worried about his cookies, but a lion no less. “Yeah, ready.”

Allura’s voice held a magnificent smile that carried over the speakers, “Excellent. Good luck, Hunk. The others have had their go-about already, so this should be _very_ interesting.”

“Oh, _interesting_? That’s reassuring.” Hunk snarked, but Allura’s static-y giggle told him none of his bitterness was quite potent enough to land. Which, the rational part of him supposed, was good. Allura wasn’t to blame for his predicament after all, that fell to him and the universe alone. Hunk wondered if there was a way to kick oneself in the shin across time. Surely someone had figured out how to do that by now, right?

What was he so worried about, anyways? This wasn’t his first round with new training updates. Heck, far from it. Besides, this was just hand-to-hand combat, no bayard training today—the easy stuff! Chameleon-hullabaloo or not, whatever it entailed, he could handle it easily. It wasn’t hard for a big guy like him to keep the tables turned in his favor in fights, in fact, even when he wasn’t on his A-game, he was a pretty mean opponent. Especially against the training bots, when there wasn’t a living, breathing being behind all his hits. It was the living opponents that complicated things, just ‘cause his gentle nature, but there was no need to be gentle with training bots whose entire prerogative is to be as _ungentle_ as possible.

No, there was no reason for him to be stressing. He had this in the bag, he was ready. He had his gloves, his favorite training shorts, those comfortable sneakers he found at the space mall—he even thought it fitting to give wearing that muscle shirt Pidge bought him a go (of course, he’d never let her catch sight of him in it. He was determined to see just how long he could go without her seeing him in it, if only to test how many times he could get away with it before she either caught him, or forced him into it herself.).

He was a lean, mean, ready-to-kick-some-robot-butt machine, and as the doors to the training room hissed open, Hunk felt like he could take on anyone. That being said, that didn’t mean he wasn’t still a shade of surprised when the doors hissed open to reveal a dull-eyed Shiro dressed in his own training ensemble. A shade of surprised, and very, very confused.

“Uhh...Allura? What’s Shiro doing in he—” A shade of surprised, very, very confused, _and_ extremely panicked because Hunk was fairly positive had he not stepped to the left as fast as he had, Shiro’s clenched fist would have found its way straight into his gut. Hunk’s taken a few punches from Shiro before, and may he just say, they weren’t anything you _want_ to take to the gut.

“Oh, that. Hunk, love, you recall the new _software_ Pidge and I installed, yes?” Allura hummed. Even behind a carefully crafted facade of feigned innocence, Allura still sounded like an angel.

“ _Yeah_ —” Hunk managed to, once more, narrowly dodge a Shiro-brand strike that he really, _really_ didn’t feel like letting land just yet. Or, ever, if he could help it. “But what does that have to do with Shir— _oh_.”

“ _Oh_ , indeed, Hunk.” Allura, sweet, sweet Allura who Hunk was now beginning to suspect was actually _enjoying_ his misfortune, mocked.

It made perfect sense now. Highly-adaptive. _Form-changing_. Chameleonware. Fuck him in the goat ass, _what has he done_?

“This really isn’t what I thought you meant!” He cried, as if that would do him any good in avoiding Not-Shiro’s leg that shot out in a far too-close-for-comfort attempt to sweep Hunk’s legs out from beneath him. This wasn’t good, this wasn’t good at all.

“Work on that form, Hunk,” Not-Shiro commanded in what was, admittedly, a pretty spot-on impersonation of Shiro, aside from the digitization where it was clear the Chameleonware had cut and pasted together pieces of dialogue it must have picked up from the real Shiro somewhere along the way. Hunk briefly wondered, in between wishing for a swift death and gritting his teeth because of course— _of course_ he would be getting lectured by a not-quite-carbon copy of Shiro, because that’s _exactly_ what he needed right now— ** _not_** , if the Chameleonware was collecting data on him, too. The way he moved, the way he spoke, his mannerisms and fighting style and everything in between. It was, frankly, a disconcerting thought, though he imagined he would probably be a little more irked by the whole shebang were he not trying to _desperately_ keep away from the business end of Not-Shiro’s fists.

“Relax Hunk, you’re doing just fine. And, you know,” Here, Hunk imagined Allura pursed her lips in that condescending-but-I-absolutely-refuse-to-be-condescending way of hers, “it would be even easier for you, if you hadn’t put it off so long love.”

Ah, so he was indeed wrong. This was, in fact, _not_ the universe punishing him, but rather Allura—and Hunk had never known Allura to be very forgiving in her punishments. Oh, he was screwed. He was so screwed.

“I can’t dodge him all day,” He bit back, and his time, Not-Shiro did manage to clip him on the shoulder while he was in the middle of dodging the _other_ blow meant for his belly. Not-Shiro sure did know how to hit and fight like the real thing, but, and this might be the only thing Hunk found that could _possibly_ save him in this simulation, the bot couldn’t hit with the same sting Shiro could. Perhaps, maybe, Hunk wasn’t so screwed after all.

“Then _don’t_ dodge him Hunk, it’s a training simulation. _Fight him_.”

And this time, when Not-Shiro went in for what would have been a crippling hit to Hunk’s diaphragm, Hunk was the bold one, putting two gloved-hands on Not-Shiro’s shoulders, and all-but-throwing the imposter across the training mat. It felt good, it felt _impossibly_ good—and a small part of him wondered if this counted as him beating Shiro in a fight. Though, when Not-Shiro rose from the ground on his—its?—haunches, and the pixels serving as Not-Shiro’s face glitched in and out where the programming couldn’t manage to get Shiro’s scar _quite_ right, Hunk knew that this was nothing like fighting Shiro, and entirely like fighting a robot that merely _looked_ like Shiro. Which, on its own, would prove challenging enough if he wasn’t already well aware that the violent-machine before him wasn’t the _real_ Shiro.

Not-Shiro burst into movement, barreling towards Hunk at a speed even he had to admit, was _frightening_ , but the big lug, by a miracle of man alone, he was sure, had the sense and grace to dive out of the way, losing his footing, but finding the training mat to be a much better alternative to taking Not-Shiro’s tackle head-on. The guy, training-bot in disguise or not, was still built like a quarterback, after all.

“Excellent Hunk! I hope you’re ready, though, it gets harder from here.” Allura instructed, and Hunk found himself gearing up for a _fight_ as Not-Shiro straightened up, freezing for a moment before his pixelated body shifted like a television changing channels and Hunk was face-to-face with Keith himself, er, _not_ himself. 

Hunk was impressed, the likeness, even when compared to Not-Shiro, whose only fault had been his scar, was _uncanny_. The Chameleonware had Keith’s appearance pegged impeccably, even down to the _mullet_ , and when Not-Keith’s first action was a near-impossible to dodge kick to Hunk’s solar plexus, that Hunk took _very_ unwillingly with a grunt, Hunk knew it had Keith’s fighting style down to the _T_ , too. Which, frankly, did not bode entirely well with Hunk.

“ _Aww_ , come on man,” He hissed through his teeth, wincing through the protest from his muscles when he straightened up. “That was dirty, even for Keith!”

Hunk could have sworn the training bot had the gaul to _smirk_ at that, smug bastard, but nonetheless, Hunk wasn’t about to throw in the towel just yet. Besides, when else was he going to get a chance to actually beat Keith—or some semblance of him—in a hand-to-hand fight? Hunk wasn’t particularly _excited_ about fighting something that resembled one of his closest friends, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t at least a little eager at the chance to give “Keith” a consequence-free beat down. After all, Hunk was probably the one that Keith butted heads with the most, excluding of course Lance. The title of Head Rival of Keithland was Lance’s and Lance’s alone to bear, and there was no way Hunk was about to challenge that.

What he was about to do, however, was turn what Not-Keith had probably meant to be a bruising punch to Hunk’s collarbone, into a body slam of Hunk-ic proportions that involved, surprisingly, less heavy lifting than Hunk had expected. Turns out training bots were only _heavy_ hitters in the combatic sense.

Not-Keith seized, and Hunk took what was probably a little too much pride in having had it in him to take down something that even _remotely_ resembled Keith, before Not-Keith quickly replaced himself—itself?—with Not-Lance in the not-living not-flesh.

“Hunk, bro, where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you!” Not-Lance, in what was a very, very startlingly _on point_ rendition of Lance’s accented lilt, questioned. Hunk had to admit, it threw him off. Sure, Not-Shiro’s form comment had been very in character, and even Not-Keith’s battle cries, though not exactly eloquent, stayed true to the source—neither Not-Shiro, nor Not-Keith had quite captured the essence of either paladins like Not-Lance was clearly, and unfortunately with success, aiming to do.

“I, uh—” Hunk started, and never completed, because as soon as he opened his mouth, there was Not-Lance, lunging at him with moves that were, also, very much _not Lance_ —maybe it was, admittedly, naive of Hunk to think that the Chameleonware would stay true to even _Lance’s_ fighting style, which consisted mostly of moves he saw on action movies that don’t always turn out the way he expects them to in real-life.

“You’re getting slow Hunk,” Not-Lance, laughed, a mocking edge like a knife to his tone as he, somehow, Hunk’s not quite sure when it happened in-between his shock and the ground suddenly being much closer than he remembered, had him pinned to the training mat. Not-Lance waggled a leschevious brow as he poked Hunk’s belly, “Too many cookies, eh?”

Hunk’s expression crumbled like he’d bit into something sour, glare sharp enough to cut Keith’s untamed mullet. Chameleonware—though Hunk adored Pidge to the moon and back and would absolutely _never_ insult one of her creations otherwise—was kind of a _dick_.

“Okay, that’s it,” Hunk grunted, planting both his hands on Not-Lance’s shoulders, flipping them with a brutal smack of the imposter’s back against the training mat as Hunk’s elbow found its way with a _merciless_ aim to Not-Lance’s gut, “Best friend or not, you’re getting a _pounding_ now—”

Maybe it was the adrenaline rushing to his head, or maybe it was the slowly-growing pride in his chest from having thus-far managed to go toe-to-toe with some of the best fighters, and friends, he knew—but something had Hunk’s confidence soaring sky-high. It was a feeling he could probably find himself getting used to. That was, of course, until the very moment _Not_ -Lance was suddenly _not_ where Hunk had had him pinned to the mat. It didn’t, however, take him very long to find where the doppelganger had went. Not very long at all.

“You know, have your shoulders always been this... _broad_ , _Guapo_?” No amount of training in the world, or prior first-hand experience of being the target of Lance’s flirtatious moods, could have possibly prepared Hunk for the way that Not-Lance—which, Hunk was grateful, was, in fact _, not_ Lance, otherwise Hunk would likely never live down how red in the face he went—whispered seductively in his ear. Oh good god, there was no doubt in his mind that Pidge had designed the Chameleonware with agonizing care herself—because it was downright _evil_ , and only his Pidge could design something so undeniably diabolical.

Hunk was choking on air, and not just because Not-Lance had taken the opportunity to knee him in the ribs hard enough to knock every dredge of oxygen from his lungs. Oh, that was playing dirty if Hunk had ever seen it—and he’s dated, been in love with, and cherished Pidge as a friend long enough to know every dirty play in the book, and Not-Lance was playing filthier than a high school boys’ bathroom. 

Hunk had half a mind to scold Not-Lance for playing so especially dirty, but only half a mind, because the other half was far too busy rolling out of the way of a carefully-aimed knee that had seemed to be hell bent on burying itself in his intestine. Which, would probably have been as unpleasant as it sounded.

“Come on Hunk, quit playing around already man, we _both know_ I’m already going to win. Just throw in the towel!” Not-Lance grinned, likely a man—er, robot—that knew when he was close enough to victory to taste it. Though, Hunk supposed that was just one of the sparse flaws in Pidge’s programming of the Chameleonware: it was just too damn _cocky_.

“Not today Lance,” Hunk clenched his jaw, pushing off his haunches with a momentum that surprised him, and a fury he wasn’t aware he possessed, barreling towards Not-Lance like a bull that was _not_ in the mood to be trifled with, and even when Not-Lance managed to dance out of the way with a grace that absolutely should not be afforded to a robot, the fire in Hunk’s belly didn’t waver. In fact, it fueled him, and the clenched-fist, could-probably-do-some-damage-if-this-wasn't-a-training-bot, punch that he rolled with in hopes of landing square in the middle of Not-Lance’s shit-eating face.

Except, Not-Lance’s face, wasn’t Not-Lance’s face anymore.

“Hunk?” Pidge blinked up at him, caramel eyes round and wide as her unruly auburn curls framed her heart-shaped face. The look in her eyes was unlike anything he'd ever seen on her before. It was hurt, confused. _Betrayed_.

All the air left Hunk’s lungs, the fire left his belly—somewhere, a fly broke wind.

“P—Pidge?” Hunk raised in startled, questioning stutter that didn’t have time to become anything _more_ than that before a balled-up, freckled fist had his hand flying instinctively to touch what was bound to become a bruise on his jaw. God, that little fist was small, but _boy_ did it pack a punch. Although, Hunk was fairly positive the _real_ Pidge had hit him harder than that sparring before. Still, he was caught off guard, to say the least.

“Pidge, wait I—” He started, but was effectively cut off by a noise of rage that was _far_ too Pidge-like not to instill a sense of fear in Hunk that was unlikely to be rivaled anytime soon. Not-Pidge, who Hunk was having an _excruciatingly_ hard time discerning was _not_ Pidge—threw herself at him, and it was all he could do to throw his hands up in what was partly to defend himself, and mostly to keep Pidge’s doppelganger from hitting the training mat. 

That, like most of the moves he seemed to be making, unfortunately, back-fired on him in the form of one (1) bony knee making a _very_ painful visit where the sun, in fact, did not shine. And as Hunk fell back from one part surprise, and two parts pain, he made the very, very pressing note to remind Pidge—his Pidge, his very real, _very much not this Not-Pidge_ , Pidge—that she needed to stop forgetting that little piece of code that would keep her training updates from hitting _below the belt_. Though, that likely wouldn’t help him much in this current instance.

Not-Pidge didn’t give him a moment of reprieve—merciless, and fierce, just like the source material—before she was on him again, knees caging him in at the waist as she raised her conjoined fists above her head with the cold-blooded intent on bringing them crashing down on Hunk’s skull—or through, depending on how legitimate the murderous-glint in Not-Pidge’s caramel eyes were. Hunk was frozen still, brain overloaded and undermanaged as one half of it screamed from him to do something, _anything_ to defend himself—and the other stood fast and firm that there was nothing he could possibly do without possibly hurting the beautiful— _fake_ —girl— _training bot_ —that he called his— _not_ —girlfriend. All that was left, unfortunately, was to steel himself for the, very painful, hit he was about to take at the hands—or, not hands—of the gal he loved.

And, there was no amount of saving-face that could have hidden the pure, unadulterated relief that overcame Hunk when that hit never came. Not-Pidge froze, digitized face becoming all the less realistic and freezing on a very unflattering, very _murder-vibes_ expression, before Not-Pidge’s entire facade melted away completely to reveal an ordinary training bot. The training bot went stiff before, robotically, and very contrary to the way it had been moved up to that point, it stood, and Hunk was left, mostly, in one piece. The loud, exhausted sigh he released was well-earned, in his fair opinion.

“Hunk!” Allura’s concerned voice dragged him from the clutches of what would have been a very impromptu, though not necessarily _unwanted_ , nap, as the princess—wow, was Hunk’s head still spinning or did he just nearly forget Allura was a princess? Probably both, but that’s besides the point—ran to him with all the grace afforded to royalty. Hunk felt that he should probably be a little bashful, sprawled out on the floor _shamelessly_ in front of a _princess_ no less, but he figured Allura had seen _all of them_ in worse shape before, and besides—he was too tired for dignity at this point. “Hunk? Are you alright?”

Doting hands found purchase on his shoulder, and Hunk figured it was high-time to get off the—now sweaty—training mat, sitting up with a groan he was, again, _too tired_ to be the least bit shameful over. “Yeah, I’m fine. I think.”

“What happened?” A thin, white brow raised incredulously with her question as Allura tilted her head to the side ever so gently. Hunk’s mother would do the same thing when he was little and got a little too banged up playing around with his little friends. It made his chest pang with longing, and reminded him how motherly Allura always seemed to be. He was always grateful for that. “You were doing so great until—”

Except, and Hunk could honest-to-god invent a time machine with the sole purpose of going back in time to kick himself for this, there was something else that mothers were _fantastically_ good at, other than picking you up and dusting you off when you fell. They always, _always_ , managed to figure things out—even when you didn’t want them to.

“Until…” Allura trailed off, before her blue eyes flitted to the training bot that still stood off to the side, as if it were a soldier awaiting its next command. The same training bot, that up until a moment ago, had resembled Pidge in a way that some _photographs_ of her didn’t manage to. Allura’s mouth formed a silent _O_ , and Hunk knew—Allura _knew_. Oh, he was so dead.

****

Contrary to popular belief, there are some things that a nice, hot shower _can’t_ wash away. Bruises, being one of those things. Shame at having his ass handed to him by a training bot, dirty tricks at work or not, another thing. Icy-cold fear—another beast entirely.

Hunk towel-dried his hair with all the half-assedness afforded to him by his complete and utter _lack_ of energy. The talk with Allura, after the fact of her great (read: obvious) discovery, went, despite Hunk’s knowledge that the end for him was nigh, surprisingly well. She was understanding—another one of those ways that she was so gosh-darned motherly, and touched not only that she was the first Hunk told—however not entirely willingly—but also that he trusted her to keep her new-found knowledge from the greater majority of the Castle’s residents. Pidge, included, if Hunk were to live to see another day. All in all, with the exception of how _scarily_ giddy Allura seemed over the whole thing—including when she informed Hunk, quite matter-of-factly, that she had, quote, unquote, knew all along—Hunk couldn’t have imagined someone finding out to have gone any better than it had. Or, rather, he couldn’t have imagined someone _better_ to find out first than Allura. Sure, there was always Lance, but Hunk knew darn-well that if Lance were the first to find out, then he and Pidge would have, at most, a week before the entire galaxy was made aware that he and one Pidge Gunderson were, for lack of a better term, _together_.

There was only one little matter of business left, and the same one that had him tensed from head to toe with a feeling not completely unlike that feeling you get watching a horror movie you _know_ is going to end up badly—you’re just not sure when. Of course, that just _also_ happened to be the _same_ matter of business knocking on his door: his beloved herself.

A small fist banged against the door once, twice. Silence. “Hunk?”

Panic bubbled in his chest. His mind raced. Rational thinking went out the window, split-second thinking had the reigns now—it was too late to go back now, but not late enough to fear the consequences _before_ the pitiful response his brain could conjure up left his mouth. Oh, he was terribly screwed. “I’m uh—in the shower?”

Silence, again. A long-winded sigh, and then—

“Hunk, I can smell the Old Spice body wash from out here, you already showered. Let me in?” It was less of a demand, and more of a question, but it still had Hunk moving in an instant with the urgency to make every wish of Pidge’s his command, the kind of urgency that only came from being as fond of someone as Hunk was fond of Pidge—deeply, irrevocably, and undeniably _devout_. Thankfully, he’d had the sense to change into a clean t-shirt and shorts already—the most comfortable he could find—because though he had already lost a great deal of pride that day, it didn’t mean Hunk wanted to lose the _rest_ of what dignity he still had, not yet, at least.

Even he thought he was silly when he cracked the door, barely enough that his ebony eyes could meet the caramel gaze looking up at him that said Pidge, too, thought he was as silly as he did. He couldn’t hold it in anymore, between the exhaustion leaking into his bones and the mere _absurdity_ of the moment before them, it was all too much to resist the tickling in his throat. At first, maybe it was just a little laugh—barely even an airy giggle—before it devolved into bubbling chuckles, and then—full-blown laughter, the kind that starts in your stomach and winds up in someone else’s throat—and that’s precisely what it did, because it wasn’t long before Pidge was pushing the door open all the way, and collapsing against his chest with her own, full-bellied laughs. 

He was sore, everything hurt, and he was fairly positive that he broke Pidge’s rule, _their_ rule, the _golden_ rule—how did it go again, how had Pidge worded it? Oh, yes. _Never,_ **_ever_ ** _can our relationship interfere with our duty as_ **_paladins_** _, Hunk. I mean it Hunk, we’re_ **_paladins_** _. Hunk stop giving me that look_ —yes, Hunk was more than sure that when the laughter died down and Pidge remembered why her eyes had burned with such an intensity as they had at the door, that he was going to get the lecture of a lifetime. But, for now, he was plenty content to keep laughing with Pidge, hoping to the universe, no matter the servings of karmaic justice it dealt him, that no matter how many times he accidentally bent the rule, that he’d never have to stop hearing one Pidge-Katie-Gunderson-Holt’s laugh. As long as that was the case, he could live through any robo-ass-kicking, or lecture, any day.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'll be damned, look who it is. It's ya gurl. Ya know, the one that can't update things to save her life because she has too many damn WIPs. Yeah, it's me. So here it is, a little Hidge chapter-work I've had under my belt for a while, that I've been meaning to get around to ever since I got into the fandom (which, was a while ago guys? Damn? I didn't realize that?). Annnnd part of the reason I haven't gotten around to it is because of my other works I've got floating around, that I'm really proud of, so I'm sorry those have been coming first, but they're my original works, so they're special to me, ya dig? And I've also, admittedly, been avoiding the fandom due to the unfortunate fate of our collective muse (vld). I'll be honest, I haven't watching anything past season six, I think? And it's probably going to stay that way, hands down. I've heard a lot about the final season, and even season seven probably, and I've just gotta be honest, I don't see myself watching it in the foreseeable future, I would rather just remember vld for what it once was. And though I'm sure we all love vld to death, I'm sure many of you can agree with my sentiments on it.
> 
> Anyways, so here's this. I don't want to make any promises I can't keep, because frankly, I can't guarantee that this means I will start working on Echo again, but I can say that I wrote this with the intention of refamiliarizing myself with the characters of Voltron, so maybe I can put myself in the right place of mind to try (read: try, I love Echo, but sometimes a writer just c a n ' t) and maybe work my way up to finishing, or at least continuing, Echo. Until then, or not, please take this in the meantime. As always, kudos are appreciated, and I love the shit out of comments.


End file.
